Where I Go
by JBS-Forever
Summary: Dean always hoped it would be something normal that killed Sam in the end, but not this. Never this. (Set in early season 2. One-shot.)


**So...I don't know. This just came to me and I wrote it. **

**It's set in early season 2.**

**It's in a universe where a deal has already been made that prevents Dean from selling his soul to save Sam, so you'll have to go along with that (and any other inconsistencies).  
**

**It's pretty short and kind of sad, but here it is. In all its...glory?**

**Eh. **

**Enjoy, haha.**

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Dean thinks he should have realized it sooner. It started with Sam's visions– the nasty, crippling headaches that left him writhing on the ground, one hand fisting Dean's jacket and the other pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tightly until the worst of it passed. Then he'd stumble along with Dean, forcing his older brother to drive him wherever the vision told him to go. And Dean would give in, even when Sam sat slumped against the car door, rubbing his forehead in silent misery.

Dean thinks he should have realized it when the visions stopped, but the headaches didn't. They transformed into something else, waking Sam early in the morning and sometimes late at night. And Dean didn't know how long they had been happening before he caught Sam one morning heaving the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

"Cold or flu?" Dean had asked him.

Sam didn't look sick, and he didn't act delirious the way he often did when he felt sick. But every morning, almost like clockwork, he'd wake with a headache. Sometimes he would throw up. Most times he wouldn't. And he never woke Dean. Not even the time he stumbled to the bathroom and collapsed before he made it. Dean had woken on his own to find Sam folded in half on the floor, gasping the way he did when he had visions. But there was no vision. Just pain.

Dean knew he shouldn't have let Sam go on that hunt with him. Sam had thrown up that morning, and his headache lingered in strained words and painful sighs.

"You sure you're feeling okay?" Dean asked as the Impala came to a halt. Sam nodded and pushed open his door.

"Just a headache," he said. "I'm fine."

"You can sit this one out, Sammy. It's routine. I'll be in and out like that."

"It's _Sam. _And stop babying me," he snapped. "You wanted me with you, so I'm with you."

Dean rolled his eyes at him. "I'm trying to be nice. Don't be a bitch about it."

That had sent Sam out of the car with a mumbled apology and two fingers rubbing his temples. He followed Dean into the old warehouse and they crept through the shadows, searching for any sign of movement or noise.

Dean tried to keep an eye on Sam, but a few seconds of looking away to take out the monster betrayed him. When he turned back, Sam was no longer standing behind him. He was crumpled on the floor, eyes closed and breathing labored.

It took Dean nearly five minutes to wake him, and at the point, he was just done. His big brother instinct was screaming that something was very wrong, so he hauled Sam to the car and drove and drove until they reached a hospital.

Dean thinks he should have known, even though Sam didn't tell him his headaches had started long before Dean had come to get him at college.

The doctor's words rang through his head. It was one word; something so simple, so human, yet so destroying. Dean always hoped it would be something normal that killed Sam in the end, but not this. Never this.

And maybe that's what his dad had meant when he told Dean if he couldn't save Sam, he'd have to kill him.

Sam had a tumor. A cancerous, inoperable tumor in his head. Too close to some nerve or something that they couldn't get it out. And it had been there too long for them to catch it in the early stages.

"How long?" Dean demanded of the doctor –a poor, old man with sunken eyes and an expression of pity engraved so deep in his face Dean figured he just looked like that all the time. And why wouldn't he? He had to tell people they were dying.

"We don't know for sure," he said. "We can do chemotherapy and radiation to help, but the tumor has progressed quite far."

"_How_ _long_?"

The doctor sighed. "I'd give him six weeks. At the most."

The words hit Dean harder than anything he'd ever felt. It was like a crushing blow to his chest, impaling his heart and pinning it in place so he could do nothing to get rid of the pain.

He had bitten back tears, grinded his face into one of false calmness, and went back into Sam's room.

"I know," Sam said without looking up at him–without Dean saying anything at all.

"We'll find a way, Sammy. We can do something."

"You know we can't," Sam said softly. Dean slammed his fist into the soft material of the mattress.

"Don't say that," he growled. "Don't just give up."

Sam was calmer than he should have been. "I'm not giving up. I'm being real. This isn't some monster you can fight. This is inside me, Dean. Eating away at me. You can't fix it. You can't save everyone."

"I can sure as hell try."

And Dean _did_ try. He called any and every demon that would listen to him, begging to make a deal, but no one would do it.

"Sorry, sweetie. You're too late for this one."

"What're you talking about?"

"Haven't you heard? Another deal has already been made. One that stops you from saving your precious Sammy."

"Who would do that?"

"That's a good question."

"Are you saying you're rejecting my soul? Can demons even do that?"

"I don't hold the contracts, Dean. I can grant you any other wish you want, but you can't save your brother. You can't save everyone."

"Watch me."

Dean spent hours in every book he could get his hands on, looking for a cure or at least something that would extend Sam's life. And Sam just let him do it. Just watched him with careful eyes, knowing he was right at his breaking point. Sam always knew.

Sam wouldn't do the chemotherapy. He told Dean and the doctor that right away. If he was going to die, he didn't want to spend his remaining days sick and in misery and losing his hair. His stupid, precious hair that Dean tried to get him to cut and he never would. Dean begged him to consider the medicine, but nothing anyone said changed Sam's mind.

So Dean tried to go back to living like normal, as per Sam's request. They drove away from that little town and into a bigger one for a new case. They put on suits and they went to a grieving woman's house, and Dean couldn't help but feel guilty for being there. He wouldn't want anyone bugging him after losing someone he loved.

"We're very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Peterson," Sam said sympathetically. "We just need to ask you a few routine questions."

The teary-eyed woman looked right at Dean, into his heart and his soul. "But I already went through this with the other officers."

Dean could only stare at her, forcing Sam to pick up the conversation again.

"We know," he said softly. "I promise, it will only take a couple minutes."

"Okay."

"Thank you. First, I just want to know what you saw when you came home and found your husband."

Mrs. Peterson frowned, and Dean finally looked away from her, giving his attention to Sam, who didn't seem to realize what he had said.

"I didn't find him. The maid did," Mrs. Peterson said. A line appeared between Sam's eyebrows and his mouth opened and closed a few times, no sound escaping.

"I–" He froze for a moment, terror lighting his eyes, and gave Dean a look of distress.

"Right," Dean said. "Sorry, he's had a long night. Can you tell us what the maid saw?"

Sam kept his composure, but Dean could see him crumbling anyway. Sam was forgetting things. Little things, like who saw what and where they saw it, but things nonetheless. And Dean knew it would only get worse.

It was one night after Sam had a nightmare about Jessica that Dean grew even more concerned. He had woken, thinking Sam had a headache, only to find his brother sitting at the table, one hand smashed against his cheek.

"Sam?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Just a nightmare," Sam muttered.

"Clowns or midgets?"

He smiled faintly. "Neither. It was–" he paused, eyebrows furrowing together. "It was…"

"What?"

"I can't remember her name," Sam whispered in the most miserable voice Dean had ever heard. "Dean, I can't _remember_."

"Jessica?" Dean asked, sliding out of bed and going over to sit next to his little brother. Sam nodded, tears filling his eyes.

"How could I forget?" he asked.

"It's not your fault, Sammy," Dean said. "It's just the–"

"Tumor?"

Dean sighed. "Yeah, that. It's one of the symptoms."

Sam wiped at his face. "Did you look that up? Did you _actually _do research?"

"I might have. Shut up."

"What else happens, Dean? How sick am I going to get?"

"Sam–"

"Please, Dean. Just tell me."

Dean looked into Sam's eyes, past the tears and the pain. There was something rumbling under his feet, getting ready to open and throw him down into Hell.

"Things will start going out," he said. "Your memory. Your ability to walk and make sense of things. And then…your eyes, probably, because of where the tumor is. The headaches will get worse and you'll get weaker and more tired. I think you'll lose consciousness before it…before it…"

"Kills me?" Sam asked. Dean tore his gaze away, feeling his own eyes fill with tears.

"Sammy."

Sam sniffed, sitting up straighter. "I need you to do something for me, Dean."

Dean looked up at him. "What?"

"I don't…I can't go through that," Sam said, lips trembling and eyes filling again. "And I don't want you to go through that. It's not fair to you."

"No," Dean said quickly. "Absolutely not. Sam, I'm not going to kill you."

His dad's words echoed in his head again: Save Sam or kill him. He knew that wasn't what he meant, but things sure had a funny way of working out sometimes.

"You have to, Dean," Sam said. "Please. For me."

"No. I won't."

"Dean."

"I would rather die, Sammy."

"If you don't do it, I'll find someone who will."

"Over my dead body."

Sam sighed. Dean knew Sam had always been someone who needed his eyes. He was all books and movies and learning and seeing the world. Dean couldn't imagine him not being able to do what he loved. He couldn't imagine Sam not being able to move, or the crippling pain that would become constant, leaving him in misery until finally he passed out and died.

He sucked in a watery breath. "How should we do it?"

"I have an idea."

Sam made some calls, and in the end, it wasn't Dean who would be put to the task of finishing things. Dean wondered if Sam did it on purpose to save him some of the misery. But now it was in Bobby's hands. The last person Dean thought would ever agree to do this.

And then Sam picked a day. He picked the day he wanted to die. Ten days from then. Enough time for them to complete one last hunt and then travel up to Bobby's.

But Sam was getting sicker, just like Dean said he would. His balance was going out. He was bumping into doors and tables, tipping over when he walked or stood upright for too long, and he couldn't keep his arm straight no matter how hard he tried. Dean didn't trust him with a gun anymore, so they rushed through their hunt and left the town behind.

Sam slept most of the way to Bobby's, his headache becoming more constant. Dean only woke him when they were at a rest stop or he wanted Sam to eat something. Besides that, he drove in silence. A silence that he would never hear again. Not without Sam.

By the time they made it to Bobby's, there was only five days left. And Sam was weak. He could still walk, but it took him a long time to get anywhere.

While he slept at night, Dean drank. A lot. He tried to wash away his sorrows, but the hole inside his chest was expanding, and the rumbling was growing louder underneath his feet.

"You planning to swim in that?" Bobby asked him the first night.

"Hoping to drown," Dean muttered, taking another drink and sitting back in his chair.

"Kid, you can't just quit on him now."

"What do you want me to do?" Dean snapped. "You want me to go up there and hold his hand? To read him fairytales and tell him everything's going to be all right? That's he not going to di–"

Dean's throat swelled shut and he slammed his glass down, moving his hand to cover his eyes. He could feel Bobby take the seat across from him.

"I ain't saying you need to sugar coat things," Bobby said. "God knows that boy understands how cruel the world can be. I'm just saying you should be there for him. You ain't got as much time as you think you do."

Dean pinched the bridge of nose, his lips trembling. "What am I supposed to do, Bobby?" he asked. "I've tried everything to save him. _Everything_. Nothing is working."

"You can't save everyone, Dean."

Dean looked up at him miserably. "But he's my brother."

"I know, kid." Bobby laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "I know."

The days wound down quick. Sam stayed in limbo, not getting better but not getting worse. There were no visitors. No flowers or goodbyes. Sam didn't want it. He didn't want a parade of pity. He didn't want to see everyone sad and know he was the reason.

Dean told him stories from when they were little. Told him about their mom and the way she baked cookies and how she always smelled good and how soft her voice was when she sang "Hey Jude" to him at nighttime when she put him to bed. And Sam smiled, but the smiles only lasted so long before they turned into tears.

And then the day came, and there was nothing Dean ever could have done to prepare for it. Sam had woken up that morning with a headache so bad his vision spun, and he barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up and the nosebleed began.

Dean helped clean him up and then dragged him downstairs where Bobby was waiting with water and soup. Sam gave a halfhearted attempt to eat it, but both Dean and Bobby knew his stomach was too upset to keep anything down.

"You know, it's strange," Sam said weakly, sitting propped up against Dean's shoulder.

"What is?"

"I always thought it would be something supernatural that got me. I mean, I hoped it wouldn't. I tried to get away from all this. But I think a part of me always thought something would get me in the end." Sam let out a long breath and bit his bottom lip. "I don't wanna die, Dean."

"I know," Dean said, tears flooding his eyes. He tried to blink them away, but they fell down his cheeks in betrayal. "But it'll be okay."

"You've always been there to protect me," Sam said, "But who's going to protect you?"

"I will," Bobby said gruffly from the entryway. His voice wavered. "I'll keep him safe, kid. I'll watch out for him."

Sam gave him a watery smile. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Sure thing, Sam. I'll give you guys a few minutes. Everything is set downstairs whenever you're ready."

Dean let out a miserable sound from the back of his throat, unable to catch it before it escaped. Sam's hand found his leg, squeezing in a comforting way. Dean wound his arm around his little brother and pulled him close for the last time.

"You don't have to do this, Sammy," he said. "We can find a way. We can do something else."

"It'll be okay, Dean," Sam whispered Dean's words back to him. "You're gonna be okay."

And Dean cried, the most horrible, gut wrenching cry to ever leave his body. Sam was his only family left. Sam was his little brother. He had sworn to protect him, and he had failed. And he was going to be alone. Utterly and shatteringly alone.

"Please don't leave me, Sammy," he said, burying his face in the top of Sam's hair. "Please don't do this. Stay and let me find a way to save you."

"You can't save me," Sam said gently. "And I think you've known that for a while."

"It's not supposed to be this way. You're supposed to be okay. We're supposed to take on the world together. What am I supposed to do without you, Sammy? What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"You're supposed to live," Sam said. "A real life. Not one with monsters and demons and things that go bump in the night. I want you to _live_, Dean. I want you to get out and be free and find someone to love and someone who loves you. Live the life I always wanted to. Promise me that, okay?"

"Sammy–"

"Promise me. Promise you'll try to live a normal life. Promise you'll try to move on."

Dean nodded, pulling back from Sam. He looked at his brother's tear stained cheeks and nodded again. This was the last time. The last time he could ever promise Sam anything. The last time he could give Sam some kind of hope. The last time he could protect his brother from the troubles of the real world.

"Okay, Sammy. I promise."

Sam gave him a small smile and then looked toward the entryway, searching for Bobby. "It's time," he called.

Dean released him unwillingly. Bobby was there a moment later, helping Sam to his feet and keeping a hold of his arm so he wouldn't fall. Dean stood with him, but this was a journey he couldn't go on. This was where he would let Sam walk out of his life. This was the last moment he would ever see his little brother.

"I love you, Dean," Sam said. Dean looked into those green, puppy dog eyes one last time.

"I love you, too, Sammy."

And maybe that wasn't what his dad meant when he said he would have to save Sam or kill him, but it worked out that way. Because Dean couldn't save Sam. He couldn't save the one person he was supposed to. He couldn't save everyone.

All Sam ever wanted was to get out. To get away from being a hunter and to live a normal life. To marry Jessica and have three kids and live in a two story house with a white picket fence and a porch swing. And he would never get it. And Dean thinks he should have known that from the beginning.

But he knows he can do one thing for Sam, and that is to keep his promise. To try to live a normal life and find someone to love. And he knows where to go, but it won't be all of him that goes there. There will always be a part of him with Sam, buried deep in the ground. Buried deep in the memories of when they were children and the world was exciting and strange and terrifying, but they had each other and that was okay. They always had each other.

And they always would.


End file.
